To Build a Home
by TapesAndRecords
Summary: "Now, he's got a house and a home. His home was created around him. And he never feels alone, always feels welcomed by his home. They're his family." My 200th ep celebration. Spoiler-free for 9x14.
1. Note

Hello everyone!

This is my Author's note for the next 'chapter'. But only because I'll probably ramble on about the awesome-ness of the occasion..

So, with regards to this fic, it's got a little story to it. Basically, I heard the song _To Build a Home _by the Cinematic Orchestra. And it's gorgeous. Anyways, whilst listening to it in the early hours of the morning, I ended up writing something. This was back in October. It lay forgotten about, in the archives of my phone, in November, until I rediscovered it the next month. I tweaked it a little bit there and then, and spent January pondering whether or not to post it. I decided it should be up on an occasion like the 200th ep...

It's not got any spoilers or anything from the promos, because I don't want to write about it in case I ruin the whole anticipation of the actual episode airing. Which is in a few hours, if I'm correct? (eek). So yeah, this is more of my celebration of such a momentous occasion, rather than anything to do with it. I hope that makes sense.

I'm very excited for the ep, if you haven't realized...

And with that, let's continue!

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><p>Disclaimer: Riva... Visa... Tiva?<p> 


	2. To Build a Home

**For the Team.**  
><strong>For Mark and Michael and Cote and Pauley and Sean and Rocky and David and Brian. And everyone else.<strong>

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><p><em>"This is a place where I don't feel alone- this is a place where I feel at home..."<em>

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><p>He's never had a family long enough to fully treasure or appreciate it, until it was gone. His relationship with his Dad is getting better, but he knows it will never be perfect. He's never had that sense of security, or of stability. He's never had a home.<p>

Because as he sits in a dusty chair in his house, he notes the walls, made of stone, that let in the occasional gust of wind, and the wooden floors that have cracks in the floorboards and are worn down after so many years of walking over them. Noticing the layer of thick dirt on his table, he realizes that this is a place he feels safe in- it's his house, not his home.

He'd built a home for his loved ones, but it disappeared and turned to dust, so much like the pieces floating through the air; the pieces illuminated by the stark beam of sunlight. So, he realizes, he ended up with a house- not a home. The shell, that's what he got. He created the home but it was never filled properly; it was snatched from him before it became loved and appreciated fully.

But not now. Now, he's got a house and a home. His home was created around him. And he never feels alone, always feels welcomed by his home. They're his family.

His old friend is the foundations- tales to be told that stretch far beyond knowledge or imagination. But he's the roots; he keeps them grounded. People turn to him when there is no more hope. People turn to him at the end of days. The man who uncovers death, assists in life. It almost sounds humorous. But they need him to hold them up, whether they know it or not.

The old man's assistant is the cement; he's always there and required, but not always acknowledged for what he does. He ties everyone together unknowingly, and enables the house to stay up in the storms. He's the fall-guy, the necessity, whether they know it or not.

The probie; the new guy. He's the timber, the frames- he's taken for granted and not recognized at points, but still needed. He helps them stay strong so that they can keep going; he offers his skills without a moment's hesitation. He is practically nothing without the rest of them. Nobody realizes quite how needed he is until they collapse if he's not there- they need his abilities and clever tricks. He needs their shelter and strength, too, whether they all know it or not.

The almost-daughter is the pipes and the wires, she keeps them warm and supplies them with endless energy. She weaves in and out of the frame, doing her thing but controlling what he does too. They couldn't get through anything without her. And she solves their problems and means they can go on with their life. The scientist, the one who works with machines and equipment, gives them the electricity and the answers they desire, then goes back to giving them water and heat and constant friendship, whether they know it or not.

The naughty son-like figure, the clown, is the floors. Without him, they fall through emptiness until they hit the ground with a painful jolt. He makes sure they can reach places, without allowing just anyone to walk all over him. He lets them get to where they're going but ensures his presence is most definitely known. He knows what they are like when he isn't there for whatever reason, and never wishes that upon his friends. So he keeps them standing strongly, a firm support for them, whether they know it or not.

Their exotic beauty- the assassin- is the walls. Remarkably similar and close to the floors, she knows how to manipulate people by putting up doors and tearing them down again. She gives them privacy to act whilst still knowing every detail of them and what they do. She can be painted with mask after mask to hide her emotions and only a rare few have the ability to regard the undercoat; the original color. She connects and binds them all, but separates and splits them in turn. Only she can fall down and take everyone else with her in the wake of it, whether they know it.

And him? He's the ceilings. He surveys them all as boss, and they take his presence as a notion to act and display discoveries. He's strong and can have things pulling him down, but always stays in the same place. He's every size and shape and color, but that's determined by the walls and the floors and everything down to the foundations. He moulds to fit each person but stays the headstrong figure they all know and respect. In their eyes, he's the top of the pile; the big guy; the epitome. They want to be the ceiling; they want the perfect view of their world.  
>But he knows it's not all shining and bright. It hurts, you lose. You end up sitting in a room that hasn't been cleaned for however-long, wishing you knew what to say and when to say it.<p>

He wants to be as funny as the clown, as quick as the assassin, as energetic as the scientist. He wants to be lovable like the probie, as there-for-people as the assistant, as knowledgeable as the old man. But he's not. He's just the ceilings. And he guesses he's okay with that.

He's comfortable with his family; his home. He feels loved and respected by them- needed, even. He's never felt quite so needed before.

**000000**

His just-about-son comes over and offers to help clean the tables and scrape the dirt off the chairs. They laugh and talk and take regular breaks for a gulp of beer. It's hard work but the room is clean eventually. So clean, in fact, that the most beautiful and most dangerous member visits to see what the big deal is and ends up sharing a pizza with them both.

Before he realizes, there's a party happening in his living room, nibbles and all. He can't blame them, really. It's been a long time since they all got together casually. Too long.

Then, when they're all too drunk to go anywhere and the only sober member- Ducky- has probably had just a little over the limit, they stay.  
>Tony takes the couch despite all protest.<br>Ziva lies on a mattress on the floor right next to her partner.  
>Abby curls up in the corner wrapped in blankets.<br>Tim sleeps on the armchair to her left after snoozing there earlier.  
>Palmer gets another mattress.<br>Ducky drifts off on the only spare bed.

And Gibbs doesn't sleep. A forty-minute doze on a wooden chair is all he needs.  
>The rest of the time, he sits and contemplates his wonderful family.<p>

The light streams in, and he sees how Tony's arm has slid off the couch, his hand brushing Ziva's upturned palm, as if they fell asleep with their fingers interlocked.  
>Abby's feet have kicked round and one has tangled itself with Tim's.<p>

They've all got their own little houses, he realizes. Houses they've built together, with one another. And surprisingly, he's absolutely fine with that.

Because they're family. Enough said.

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><p><em>"I'll build a home; for you, for me..."<em>


End file.
